Art I like Forbidden zone
You gingerly step down from the hole, and land on a patch of grass. Looking up, you notice the hole has disappeared. How strange. In its place, there is only serene blue sky. Then you realise something horrifying - the hole is above the rough location of the teleporter room. Presumably this is a very real tropical island. One of the Bahamas, perhaps. Unfortunately, it also seems to be a very small Bahama. It is only about the size of your granny's kitchen, and not nearly as welcoming. You try all the usual tricks: signalling for help, building a raft. They don't work.
Underneath the hole is a very convincing replica of a tropical island. It has it all: the palm trees, seagull sound effects, and crystal clear turquoise water.
Like most security guards, this guy is quite muscular. Although you land what you think are a few good blows, it appears you are being highly charitable to yourself, as you soon feel like vomiting. You pass out shortly afterwards.
He beckons to you. "Hey! That's against the rules. You must leave the building, and you've not allowed to come back." You reply - "What rules?". But it is no use. Soon you find yourself in the parking lot.
Unfortunately, you are immediately accosted by a security guard. It appears that he had disguised himself as a load-bearing pillar. He throws the polyester brickwork to one side and makes eye contact.
You kneel down and tear the canvas of a particularly saccharine country scene. You feel a lot better about things than you did before.
Upon examining the paintings, you immediately see why they are up here: they are all by Thomas Kinkade.
This door leads directly into a bunch of old wooden stairs, which appear to lead directly to the attic. You ascend them. The attic seems to employ a somewhat unusual lighting setup - there is a hole in the floor (two, if you count the hatch you entered through). Apart from this hole, there is nothing much up there, except a few paintings strewn haphazardly around the place.
The mug is empty. You see your own reflection at its bottom.
The memos are all about Damien Hirst's work, excepting a few, which detail plans of giving various destitute artists hard drugs so they sell their work at discount price.
- Stop looking at the memos.
Wait. Didn't Damien Hirst only become an artist in the 80s?
On the desk is a typewriter, with the N, O and V keys being worn down. Next to it lies a stack of papers - all of which seem to be boring memos about artwork acquisitions. To their right lies a mug labelled "#1 Employee 1979". You begin to wonder what series of events led to this place being abandoned.
The far side of the room has several windows. As you gaze out them, you can see the vast fields of cyberspace below.
Inside this door is a bunch of cubicles. They seem distinctly antediluvian: everything is a vibrant shade of orange, and is iced with a thin layer of dust; not to mention, there's no computers to be seen. Nor any sign of of human contact for the last forty years, for that matter.
Despite the clear warning attached to the entrance, you decide to venture forwards. You encounter a large concrete room, whose sole purpose appears to be a repository for thousands of nondescript steel boxes. As you begin to wonder what all the fuss was about, you begin to feel weak in your joints. In fact, it soon seems like you have lost the ability to think, let alone act. It is too late to see what comes next.
Despite the sign that clearly states that this is a "Staff Area Only", you decide to enter the door. What greets you is a musty hallway. Posters bedeck the walls advertising exhibits long gone, and a putrid stain on the carpet sits to one side. And despite this being a "Staff Area Only", there's no staff - only deathly silence. You stand still, pondering where to go next...